I found the photograph inside a folder I did not remember creating.
It was not the first time I had seen the lime room.
At least, that was what I thought.
The strange part was something else.
The photograph seemed to have been taken from where I was sitting.
The same wall.
The same cracks.
The same table.
Even the cup.
Empty.
Motionless.
I stared at it for several seconds before noticing the detail.
There was a note on the table.
I zoomed in.
I could not read it.
The resolution was too low.
I searched for more photographs.
There were twelve.
The room always looked the same.
The cracks never changed.
Neither did the cup.
Only one thing varied.
The position of a leather strap.
In the first image it rested on the chair.
In the second it hung from the backrest.
In the third it lay on the floor.
I kept going.
I did not know why.
The feeling was familiar.
As if I had already performed this exact sequence.
As if I were remembering an inspection instead of making one.
In the seventh photograph I found the note again.
This time it was readable.
Only one sentence.
“Do not open the last image.”
I stared at the screen.
Then I opened the last image.
The room was empty.
The chair.
The table.
The cup.
Nothing else.
For a few seconds I thought the warning was a joke.
Then I noticed the date.
The photograph had been taken three weeks after the folder.
I checked again.
Then once more.
It did not improve.
The last image was earlier.
And later.
Depending on which file I used as a reference.
I opened the properties.
Copied dates.
Wrote down times.
Eventually I had a page full of numbers that refused to arrange themselves.
While trying to reconstruct the sequence I found another file.
It was not a photograph.
It was a screenshot.
It showed the same folder open.
The same one I was looking at.
The screenshot was nine months old.
I recognized my desktop.
I recognized my icons.
I recognized the window.
What I did not recognize was the document open beside it.
A document that did not exist.
I zoomed in.
Only one sentence appeared.
“The note was not here the first time.”
I felt something close to relief.
At last there was an answer.
The handwriting was mine.
There was no doubt.
I recognized the slant.
The pressure.
Even a spelling mistake I often make.
It had been me.
I had written it.
The problem appeared a few seconds later.
I did not remember reading it.
I found a second screenshot.
The same sentence.
The same folder.
The same room.
But the note was different.
“You never found the first one.”
I closed the image.
Opened it again.
Then another.
I could not decide which had appeared first.
The contradiction remained motionless.
As if it were waiting for me.
I looked at the cup.
The real cup.
The one on my desk.
For the first time I noticed it was positioned exactly as it was in the photographs.
Same angle.
Same shadow.
Same distance from the edge.
I moved it.
Only a few centimeters.
I needed to break something.
Anything.
When I opened the folder again I found a new photograph.
I did not remember seeing it before.
The cup had moved.
The same distance.
The same direction.
An uncomfortable pressure appeared at the back of my neck.
Not fear.
Recognition.
As if the image had been waiting for me.
I started looking for the date.
Then stopped.
Because I already knew I was going to do it.
The photograph contained a note.
Small.
Almost out of focus.
I zoomed in.
Only one sentence.
“This time it took you longer.”
I remained motionless for several minutes.
Or perhaps longer.
I am not sure.
The next screenshot showed something worse.
At the back of the room there was a figure.
Sitting at the table.
Looking at the screen.
The resolution was too poor to identify the face.
But I could see the neck.
It was turned to the left.
I zoomed in.
Then again.
The date was older than the first folder.
Older than the notes.
Older than the photograph where the cup appeared.
I kept staring at it.
Trying to remember.
I think I needed to move my neck.
Or perhaps I had already found a photograph where I was doing it.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it the arrival noise…
